30. Elysa
THIRTY
Elysa
T he next day, we left Florence behind and drove to the Tuscan countryside.
Dante had rented a cherry-red Alfa Romeo Spider—a curvy and playful convertible built for the thrill of the drive.
The engine purred as he shifted gears, and the warm wind whipped through my hair as we sped past rolling vineyards and golden fields.
“This is ridiculous.” I laughed as he took a turn a little too fast, the tires hugging the road like a lover.
Dante smirked, one hand effortlessly on the wheel.
“Ridiculously fun, you mean.”
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
The road stretched ahead of us, flanked by rows of cypress trees and endless vineyards—a landscape that felt like it had been painted by time itself.
The rolling hills were a patchwork of olive groves, golden fields, and sunflowers swaying lazily in the breeze.
Every so often, a centuries-old stone farmhouse peeked out between the greenery, its terra-cotta roof warm under the afternoon sun.
The Tuscan sun bathed everything in a golden haze, and the scent of sun-warmed earth drifted through the car's open top.
“I feel like I’m in a scene from an old Italian movie,” I told him.
“ Si . Like… Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow . And you’re just like Sophia Loren laughing in the passenger seat, hair wild in the wind.”
I didn’t mind at all that my husband compared me to the Goddess of Italian Cinema.
“I feel like I need to breathe slower and deeper…and never leave,” I marveled.
“That’s what a good holiday is. You want to stay forever.” He then glanced at me. “But if you want to move to Florence or Tuscany, I can make it happen. I’ll just work from one of our hotels here.”
I grinned, my heart warm because I knew he’d do it if I asked.
When had I become so confident in my husband? Sometime over the past few months, as he made it his life’s mission to win me back. And he had, hadn’t he? Because I was more in love with Dante than I had ever been. And this time, it was real because I loved him not just for the moments of passion or the way he made me feel but because I truly knew him. Understood him. And he knew and understood me .
“As you said, it’s a good holiday when you don’t want to go back home, but you have to; otherwise, you can’t enjoy the holiday.” I twirled my wedding ring. It was back on my finger, along with the diamond he’d given me as an engagement ring. He’d never taken his wedding band off. “So, where exactly are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. A good one. Perfect for a sommelier.”
I colored with embarrassment. “I’m not really a somm, Dante.”
“Sure you are, bella mia . Being a sommelier is not about getting degrees and passing exams; it’s about knowing wine, and you, Elysa, know wine.”
It was a compliment that touched my heart because it wasn’t just flattery—it was recognition. It meant something, coming from him. He wasn’t just humoring me—he believed in me. And that was worth more than any formal title.
Dante pulled into a family-run winery outside San Gimignano. Its stone facade was draped in ivy, and the smell of ripening vines was rich. Rows of Sangiovese stretched toward the horizon, their leaves deep green against the rich brown soil.
A broad-shouldered man with sun-weathered skin stepped forward .
Dante greeted him like an old friend, clasping his hand firmly. " Giosuè, quanto tempo ."
"It has been too long!" Giosuè clapped him on the back before turning to me, his eyes twinkling. "And this is the wife?"
"Yes, this is Elysa. And you’ll want to pay attention, Giosuè. My wife knows her wine,” Dante said smoothly, with pride, which made my breath hitch. “ Bella mia , this is Giosuè Neri, and this is his vineyard.”
“I’m no expert, Signor,” I deflected as I shook hands with Giosuè.
Giosuè grinned. " Ah, allora, vediamo ! We’ll see, yes?”
He led us to a shaded terrace overlooking the vineyards, where glasses of deep ruby-red Chianti Classico were already waiting. This was my version of heaven.
Giosuè lifted his glass and expertly swirled it, watching the wine's legs slide down the sides like slow-moving silk.
“This,” he announced proudly, “is our pride and joy. Aged two years in Slavonian oak barrels, just enough to round out the tannins without overpowering the fruit.”
Even though French oak had become the gold standard for fine wines in most winemaking countries, many regions in Italy still favored traditional large-format Slavonian oak and had been since the early nineteenth century.
Due to their tight grain and larger size, these barrels minimized oxygen exposure, allowing the wine to develop complexity while imparting more subtle flavors and softer tannins compared to the smaller French oak barriques.
I mirrored Giosuè’s movements, lifting my glass and swirling it.
The color was deep garnet, almost velvety.
I brought it to my nose, closing my eyes as I inhaled.
Dark cherries.
Sun-warmed plums.
A whisper of leather and tobacco.
The faintest trace of violet.
I took a slow sip, letting the rich, structured flavors unfold on my tongue—blackberry compote layered with warm spice, a hint of earthiness, and a touch of balsamic depth that spoke of the sun and soil of Tuscany.
The tannins were firm but elegant, holding everything together like a perfectly tailored suit.
I swallowed, savoring the lingering finish before setting my glass down.
Giosuè watched me with amusement.
"Well?"
I let out a slow breath.
"Balanced. Complex. The fruit is bold, but it’s got restraint. The oak isn’t overpowering—just enough to give it warmth. And the acidity…it makes you want another sip." I smiled.
"It’s perfect."
Giosuè threw his hands up with delight.
“Ah, she’s a woman who understands wine.”
Dante chuckled, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him in a long time.
He draped an arm over the back of my chair, his gaze lingering on me.
"I told you. My wife is exceptional."
I glanced at him, warmed by his words.
This wasn’t Dante playing a part or charming an investor at some high-end event.
This was real.
He was proud of me.
And because he was, I was as well.
We had dinner with Giosuè and his family.
It was raucous, and the food was simple county fare.
I loved every second of the experience, and I loved that Dante was so comfortable with it.
I’d always thought he was a snob, but I realized I didn’t know him very well—and I was glad that was changing.
Late in the evening, we sat on the balcony of our hotel in Florence, a bottle of Giosuè’s Chianti Classico resting between us.
The lights of the Ponte Vecchio shimmered on the Arno, their reflections swaying in the dark water like golden ribbons.
I swirled my wine absentmindedly, watching the way the light caught in the deep crimson liquid.
“I had fun today.”
Dante, who had been watching me more than the view, smiled.
“So did I.”
“Are we really going to be alright?” Old fears and insecurities didn’t just disappear after a trip to the Tuscan countryside.
It would take time, wouldn’t it?
Time to believe—not just in Dante, but in us.
In myself.
He set his glass down, turning fully toward me.
“Yes, we are. ”
He seemed so confident, but I was far from it.
I gripped my glass tighter.
“What if…what if it breaks apart?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“I won’t let it.”
A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped me.
“What if I’m the one who does the breaking?”
“I won’t let you.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because we love each other, and when there’s love, everything is possible.”
I swallowed, looking away at the twinkling cityscape.
The Duomo’s dome loomed in the distance, bathed in soft golden light.
Florence was a city of art, history, and beauty.
But maybe it was also a city of second chances.
I turned back to Dante, finding him still watching me, his expression open, waiting.
“I’ll hold you to that,” I warned him.
“I’m not going anywhere, amore .” He ran a finger across my lips.
“And I’m not going to let you go anywhere either.”
“That’s a good thing,” I admitted what was in my heart, “because I don’t think I want to leave.”